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  “Feels like it.”

  “Stop being a brat. People can talk about you without it being malicious.”

  “I’m yet to find that out.” Seemed like every time a person had an opinion on him, it was to his detriment. “What are you goin’ to do with yerself when we’re done here?”

  The big guy dropped to his back again, and crossed his arms over his face. “I don’t know.”

  “Retire?”

  “You know us contract boys don’t fucking retire.”

  “Who do you think they’ll get to put you out to pasture?” Talking about Trevor’s death the day he decided to stop working felt wrong, but also comforting on some level.

  The slump of his form as he lay on the bad showed it was somewhat of a relief for the guy to air the thoughts, too. “I would have said Mickey, but seeing as we’re about to take him out of commission, I ain’t so sure anymore.”

  “Dougan?”

  “Nah. I reckon they’ll do it on the sly. Try and get me unprepared.”

  “You are a hell of an opponent.” Pistol drew himself up on the couch, and leant his elbows on his knees.

  “Thanks,” Trevor chuckled. “Nah, I think they’ll get a pencil-pusher to bin this file. Take me utterly off guard.”

  “Who?”

  “Stinky.”

  “Fuck, you reckon?” He couldn’t contain his surprise at that admission. The guy hadn’t ever been seen with a gun in his hand, let alone blood on them. “You think he could do it?”

  “The world’s full of surprises, Son. You of all people should know that.”

  “Aye.” That he did. Wasn’t Steph the biggest one of all?

  “Anyway. Get cracking on some sleep. We’re busy today.” Trevor shifted his legs onto the bed properly, and pushed the pillow under his head. “Live it like it’s your last.” He held Pistol’s gaze.

  “I intend to,” he lied. It could never be his last. Not when he had his girl waiting for him to come home.

  Ivan’s car idled to a stop in her driveway, illuminating the rod with the white of the headlights. The entire ride had been white-knuckled due to the fact he was clearly still affected by the alcohol in his system.

  “What are we doing?”

  Steph shrunk at the look Ivan gave her as he opened the door, and headed for Pete’s car. She jerked the handle on her door, and sprung out to stop whatever he had planned.

  By the look on his face, it wasn’t good.

  “Why’s it here?” he bellowed, pacing around the dark vehicle.

  “He’s away. I’m looking after it.”

  “Is it that serious now, what’s happening between you two?”

  “What’s it to you?” You should be running from him. Her conscience was right, but somehow she fostered the inane need to stay and protect the rat-rod.

  “Does he do anything other than fuck you yet?”

  The chill in his words sparked the heat in her anger. “Would you like me to tell you how he fucks me, huh? Jealous Ivan? Wish it was you?”

  Steph started taking steps back, leading Ivan away from the rod, and preparing for the chase. He glared at her, thumping his fist along the bodywork of the car as he approached.

  “I’m going to make it me.”

  “Try, you fuckwit.”

  Steph made a break for it. Her heels lay abandoned on the driveway, and the pavement sent vibrations through her feet as she sprinted for freedom. A growl behind her spurred her on, adding nitrous to her system. Her feet hammered the dark street, security within her grasp, until pain shot across the back of her head.

  Steph stumbled, clamouring at the tarmac as her shoe clattered to the ground beside her. The fucker hit you with your own shoe! She struggled to regain any speed before Ivan caught up to her, slipping an arm around her waist, and hoisting her off the ground in one swift movement. His free hand clamped over her mouth, and he wrestled her kicking, and screaming back to her house.

  Steph grated her teeth pointlessly along the flesh of his palm—his grip too tight for her to get any sort of bite happening. Ivan dumped her on her feet, still pinned against his body, and used the hand that had been around her waist to search her bag for the keys to the house. Finding the chain, he hit the button on the garage door opener, and wrestled her toward the house.

  The automatic door hit the top with a clang, and immediately began its decent after a press of the button next to the internal door. Steph cringed at the rattle, and clang of the metal as it hit the concrete floor. Her fate was written.

  She stumbled through the living room toward the spare bedroom, with Ivan hot on her heels. He shoved her again, sending her sprawling onto the carpet at the foot of the bed. Steph pushed up onto all fours, and waited for his feet to come into view.

  He stopped beside her. “Get up.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, and launched herself at his legs. Ivan toppled with his ankles caught in her grasp, and smacked the back of his head into the mirrored wardrobe as he landed on the floor with a thud. His hands lashed out while she crawled herself up his body, doing everything she could to make her bodyweight enough to hold him down.

  He bucked his legs beneath her, and caught a fistful of her hair in his grasp, pulling hard. Steph cried out, and swung her hand toward his face, catching him with her nails. Ivan pulled harder, every hair on her head burning under tension like a thousand tiny tattoo guns working her scalp.

  “Get your fucking hands off me, you asshole.”

  “You won’t win, Steph. You can’t win,” he hollered back at her.

  “Why the fuck not?” She sounded an oomph as his fist collected her diaphragm, sending her backwards, clutching at her stomach.

  Ivan used the switch in position to his advantage, and sat astride her torso, holding her hands above her head. “Because you’re just a woman. You can’t overpower me.”

  “I am not—” She thrust her hips up, and sent him off balance. “—Just a woman!”

  He struggled to right himself as Steph twisted, and writhed beneath him to get on to her belly. His weight kept her pressed to the floor, but if she could just roll over…

  Salvation.

  The glint of steel caught her eye, and she zeroed in on the sliver that protruded from under the bed. Her old weights set. Thank God. She threw every ounce of her being into inching forward under his weight.

  “What ya doing, Stephie?” he taunted. “Trying to get away?”

  “I won’t let you do this, Ivan,” she pushed out between grunts.

  He chuckled like a small child as he rode on her back. Her head snapped back, the searing pain of her hair in his grasp once more brought tears to her eyes. Still, she wouldn’t let him stop her. Not when the answer was right there. He yanked harder, and the skin on her throat burned with such an intensity she was sure it would split.

  “Give in, Steph. Why make it so hard on yourself?”

  Ivan wrenched her hair to one side, and her face was forced to follow. Steph’s head lead her movements, and with a simple hold of her hair, Ivan managed to force her to roll underneath him.

  “I’d prefer if you faced me for this.” He jammed a knee between her legs, and shoved her arms above her head.

  Perfect.

  His hands were everywhere: up her dress, over her breasts, down her side, in her panties. The glide of his fingertips left a trail of disgust in their wake. She knew without a doubt that the imprint of his touch would be seared into her flesh until she managed to scrub herself raw in the shower.

  All the while, Steph’s fingers roamed the carpet, trying to get a grip on that little splash of hope. The steel slipped into her hand as smooth as silk when she finally connected her weak grasp to the bar. Inch-by-inch Steph slid the short bar out from under the bed.

  Her throat closed over with fear, with the slim chance this may not work. Ivan’s head was buried in between her legs, one of his hands holding her arm out of the way by the slimmest margin. It seemed cowardly to attack him when he didn’t s
ee it coming, but there was no remorse when it came to the Peterson boys.

  Both had screwed her over, and both had taken, or tried to take, what was never theirs to have.

  Steph raised the bar up over her body, and brought it down in a swift, forceful movement. The sound of the metal as it connected with his skull would haunt her dreams; a sickening crunch that could never adequately be described to anybody who hadn’t experienced such a thing.

  Ivan fell limp with a muffled grunt between her legs. Bile rose in her throat as she scrambled back from him, eager to get his relaxed body away from her.

  His back rose in short, staggered breaths as she leapt his unconscious form to make it to the toilet before her lunch erupted. Steph slid into the bathroom on the cool tiles, and swung her legs around the base of the toilet. Food came up in violent spasms, followed by bile, and then nothing but a fiery clear liquid as she heaved until her stomach ached.

  She should call someone, alert them to the mess in her house. But the porcelain soothed her searing flesh so sweetly. A few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt, would it? No sound came from her spare room, so she could only guess that Ivan was out for the count. Although, f she wanted to be proactive, she should secure him before he woke.

  With what though? If only she had something to …

  Her thoughts drifted to the rat-rod, and the contents of the back seat. The rope. Steph wiped a shaking hand across her mouth, and reached for the button to flush the mess away. She slammed the lid down, and pushed up to stand, shaking off the vile flashback the position gave her.

  Her legs wobbled, her hands shook, and her eyelids hung heavy. The fight had drained the last of her get-up-and-go. There was nothing left in her. She had no more to give. If Ivan got up off that floor before she could tie him up, then she was done for.

  Her limbs ached, and the weight of the day, the past week, the past month all sat heavy on her shoulders. Her body had done enough. It wanted to rest. Her mind wanted a rest. They needed the rest.

  Maybe she could sit for a moment?

  Her legs collapsed beneath her as she rounded the living room doorway, and slumped into the wall. Five minutes. A little time to catch her breath.

  Steph closed her eyes ….

  Pistol stood shoulder to shoulder with Trevor outside the modest, suburban home of the man who could start it all, and end it all—Mickey Six. The two of them were a sight to behold, decked out with weapons over every inch of their bodies. Boot knives, sawn-offs, handguns, knuckle-dusters, and bats. You name it—they had it on them. It would have been foolish of them to go in under-prepared.

  “Ready to dance?” Trevor rubbed an index finger under his nose, and spat to the side.

  “Born to move, brother.” He let the last few drags of his cigarette fall from his lips, and stubbed the butt out with his boot. “Onward, and upward.”

  “After you.” Trevor held a sawn-off out to show the way.

  He bowed, eliciting a chuckle from the big guy, and started up the narrow path that led from the road to the front door. The dwelling sat quiet, too much so. His eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for a sign of ambush, or anything that gave away Mickey knew they were there.

  Nothing.

  “I fuckin’ hope he’s home.” Pistol lifted a hand, and rapped on the door.

  It seemed so ridiculous, knocking to deliver someone’s fate. But the one thing he’d agreed on with Trevor was to spare the kids any unnecessary theatrics.

  The chain rattled, and the lock clicked. He took a step back, and glanced across at Trevor as the door inched open.

  “Shit,” a woman’s voice cursed.

  The door slammed on Trevor’s boot. Pistol spotted her run through the entranceway between the gap of the door, shouting after Mickey. He let the bat he had concealed in his sleeve slip down until it touched the ground, and with a firm grip on the base brought it over his head, and slammed it down on the chain that held the door.

  Metal links flew every which way. Trevor shoved the door wide with his foot. Yelling, and cursing led them to the kitchen at the back of the house. Mickey hollered instructions at his wife while he pulled weapons from a gun safe in the pantry.

  Pistol leant back, and held a hand out to Trevor. He’d give Mickey’s girl enough time to get the kids clear before all manner of hell rained down on them all.

  “Don’t come back unless you hear me tellin’ ya to. You understand, Calla?”

  “Aye, Mickey.”

  The tears in her shaky voice could have had Pistol turning for the door. Now that he understood what love was, he could physically feel the pain the woman had at leaving her husband to fight for his life.

  But Mickey had brought this on himself. He had to remember that.

  A criminal’s life didn’t leave room for emotion, let alone remorse. Sometimes shit had to be dealt, whether it was morally right, or not.

  The kids fled the house crying, Calla hot on their heels. He peered around the doorway to see them disappear through a gate in the back fence, and swung his eyes left to garner Mickey’s position. The guy shoved a clip into his handgun, and shook his head.

  “I know you’re there, you callous bastard. Show yer face!” Mickey slid his back along the kitchen wall, heading for cover as he checked all directions. Pistol stepped into the doorway with Trevor providing cover from behind.

  “Long time, no see, Mickey.”

  Mickey whirled to the two of them, and immediately fired off four rounds in their direction. Trevor, and Pistol each dropped to opposite sides of the doorway while Mickey slid behind the dining table, upending it on to its side with a resounding crash.

  The rush of his breath deafened Pistol’s senses, and he fought to calm his breathing. He never liked to fight with guns; they were so fucking unpredictable. But Mickey wasn’t ever found at a job without them, so he knew there wasn’t a choice. He pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster, and eyed its matte black finish. What he’d do to be at home staring at another matte black finish, and not here, hoping like fuck he didn’t get shot.

  “You gonna do this the hard way then?” Trevor called out.

  “You fuckin barged in my home. What do ya think will happen, ya fuckers!”

  Pistol looked to the big guy who shrugged, his hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail. When Trevor did his hair, shit was serious as it could get.

  Trevor flung his hand over his chest in a quick cross, and then swung his hand around the doorframe to let off a warning shot. Three more rounds rained their way, giving away Mickey’s exact position behind the table.

  Pistol nodded to Trevor, who scuttled through the door under a rain of bullets, and fell against the shelter the far side of the u-shaped kitchen provided. He rubbed his forehead, and smiled one of his broad grins.

  The fucker found this funny.

  If only he could, too.

  Trevor slid his back up the cabinets, and let off a couple of shots in the general direction of the table to distract Mickey while Pistol bolted across the doorway, and headed for the living room.

  He ducked through the majority of the front room, coming to a stop behind an armchair next to the connecting door with the dining room. A cloud of stuffing erupted beside him with a bang—Mickey knew he was in there.

  “You assholes seriously think ya gonna win?” Mickey hollered. “I live for this shite!”

  Two more shots came from Trevor, and Pistol whipped his head around the armchair briefly to locate Mickey. The guy sat backed into the outside wall, gun in each hand, and a box of ammo at his feet.

  Pistol ducked back behind the chair as bullets peppered the furniture. He laid out flat on his stomach, sucking a breath in between his teeth as one wayward shot grazed the back of his shoulder. Ominous warmth spread across the area, accompanying the burning sting that scored his flesh.

  “We can do this all day,” Trevor called out.

  “I do do this all day,” Mickey replied. “But not in front of me family. Jesus, man!” />
  “You brought it on yerself,” Pistol shouted. “Don’t go bleedin’ to us about your choices.” He dragged himself up to sit.

  “Man’s gotta make a livin’, boys. I’d expect you two to understand that.”

  “And a man’s gotta right to live,” Pistol replied.

  “So what ya doin’ tryin’ to kill me?” Mickey chuckled. “Does the right to live not apply to me sorry soul?”

  “Not when ya chasin’ me, ya asshole.” Pistol turned the gun behind him, and raised his hand over the seat to fire a shot into the dining room.

  “Jesus!” Mickey cried.

  He could only hope he hit the bastard.

  “How many boxes ya got boys? I have a feelin’ you’ll be out first.”

  Bastard. He was right. Trevor and him hadn’t counted on it being a standoff at the OK Corral.

  “It’s not what you got, but how you use it,” Trevor chuckled as he let off a couple of rounds at the table.

  The wood split at the top, giving them a weak spot to work on. Pistol swung his arm around, and fired at the split, gaining a crack as the wood gave way, splinters flying.

  Trevor scooted closer to the edge of the cabinets to be able to motion to Pistol, communicating through hand gestures that he would rush the table while Pistol gave him cover fire.

  He nodded at the big guy, and prayed to whoever listened to assholes like him that this wouldn’t backfire. Pivoting on one knee, he swung to face the dining room, and aimed at the fleeing Mickey. Trevor rushed out from the kitchen, and shoulder first, took out the table, removing any of Mickeys cover.

  As predicted, Mickey turned to take a shot at Trevor. Pistol closed one eye, drew a deep breath, and channelled every ounce of concentration he hand into the right side of his body as he aimed with the best precision he could.

  Mickey screamed out as the bullet hit his knuckles, blowing apart his grip on the gun he’d had pointed at Trevor. Taking the distraction for what it was, Trevor tackled him to the floor, and entered into a wrestling match with the crazed man.

  Pistol had never seen it with his own two eyes, but had heard from others what an animal Mickey became when wounded. The beast that howled, and clawed at Trevor’s face was testament to that entirely. He shoved the Glock back in its holster, and dived into his back pocket to take out the knuckle-duster that had left a fucking imprint in his ass while he’d been on the floor.